Bathtubs and Beanpoles
by Riandra
Summary: A modern day housewife falls asleep in the bath... and wakes up in the bathroom of 221B Baker Street. Rated T for swearing, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

Of all the bathtubs in all the world, I had to fall asleep in mine… Not the greatest line, or the most original, but it'll do to start with. The bath wasn't even the most important part, not that anyone would believe a word of this story anyhow, crazy as it sounds. All I know is that I was there, it happened, and I'll never forget it.

* * *

><p>The first I knew that anything was out of the ordinary was when I woke up freezing cold – not surprising, cause so was the water. What the hell? I hadn't been in here that long! And why hadn't Craig come and woken me up? Then I finally took a look around and realised: this wasn't my bath... or my bathroom.<p>

The tub I was sitting in now was an old-fashioned cast iron job, and the bathroom looked like something out a House and Garden magazine, all brass taps and floral tiles, with lots of cut glass bottles sitting on the shelves and cabinets. The light coming from the small frosted window told me it was daytime. It was 10pm when I got in the bath! What the hell was going on? Where was I? How did I get here? _Who was about to get their ass handed to them on the end of a bloody pole?_

You probably guessed from that last question that I was a little bit pissed off. You would be right. I was smegging furious, and scared shitless to boot. All of my friends will tell you that when I'm in that kind of headspace, the best thing to do is run and not look back. I'm _scary_ when I'm scared, mostly because I'm a Pratchett fan. Ever since I fell in love with Granny Weatherwax and Susan Death, I've tried to be like them when I'm in a bad spot – namely, lock away the fear until I've got time to deal with it, and have fun with the anger till then. The only snag was, I couldn't see anyone to be angry at. I couldn't hear anyone, either. Then again, that was probably a good thing, I told myself sternly. With no-one around, I had time to figure things out, make a plan, _get the hell outta there_.

I got out of the tub and stole over to the door. Okay, that was weird, the key was on my side. That ruled out kidnapping, for now. The door opened easily onto what seemed to be an upstairs hallway with the same old-fashioned style as the bathroom. I closed the door again and locked it, no sense in letting anyone sneak up on me. Then I started searching the room, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. Trying to leg it while defenceless would be stupid. I struck paydirt in one of the cabinet drawers, a folding cut-throat razor, nice and sharp. Not the most elegant weapon, but if it was good enough for Mr. Todd…

One more thing, I was still naked, wet and freezing my ass off. I couldn't find anything like a bathrobe or slippers, so the towels on the rail would have to do. That led to a new problem, how to hold up a towel without using both hands. Thinking quickly, I used the razor to tear off a strip so I could tie it up over my boobs. If anyone tried to catch me, the first thing they'd grab would be the towel and I could pull out of it. I used more towel strips to wrap around my feet. If I made it outside, I didn't want to cripple myself on whatever crap might be lying around.

I was about to unlock the door again, when I heard a door bang downstairs. Hell, there _was_ somebody here! Had they heard me? I took the key out of the lock and listened hard. Footsteps, coming slowly up the stairs; two voices, both male. I couldn't hear what they were talking about, but they seemed in a good mood, one of them even laughed and started singing. Drunk, maybe? That would make things a lot easier, but I needed to know more. I'd have to look through the keyhole.

Shit! My head bumped the door handle. A small sound, but the voice of the non-singing man changed. He must have bloody bat's ears, I fumed. He spoke to the other one in warning, shutting him up straight off. I didn't dare look through the keyhole now, what if Batears tried the same thing and saw me? Now they knew someone was in here, and it was only a matter of time before they broke down the door. Then again, they might have a spare key.

Come on, girl, think! The window was too small, and couldn't open, anyway. I wasn't going to mess around with broken glass half-naked unless I had to. They would get in here in the end… so I'd better be ready for them. I grinned wickedly and started looking at all the bottles. I found a jar of some kind of cream and emptied the white gunk out in front of the doorway, spreading it on the tiles in a nice wide streak from the door towards the wall. That should take care of one, one to go.

There was a box of talc on a shelf; I grabbed the box and opened it, ready for throwing. I heard the scrape of a stealthy footstep outside the door. Showtime, fellas… I flattened myself against the wall on the lock side of the door, grabbing a handful of talc. Next moment, the wood around the lock splintered and the door burst in.

The next few seconds were really busy. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, just like in all those cheesy action movies. I wish I could say that everything worked perfectly, but even in the movies, the good guys don't get all the breaks. A tall thin guy came through first, holding a walking stick like a club. The cream worked great; his feet slid straight out from under him and he hit the floor hard with a yell. Unluckily for me, he flailed with his stick as he fell, catching me on the wrist. I let go of the talc I was about to throw in the second guy's face with a yelp of pain and sucked in a lungful of powder. Coughing madly, eyes tearing up, I gripped the razor and decided to go for broke.

Bent low, I went out the door in a rush and headbutted the second guy in the midriff. He staggered back with an 'oof!', losing the gun he'd been holding. He stayed on his feet, though, and made a grab for me, catching me by the hair. I slashed wildly at his face, just missing him; he jerked back and let go, staring at me in surprise. In that split second, I noticed he was favouring his left leg and kicked his right knee hard. He collapsed with a grunt of pain, and I ran for the stairs, the way out finally open. Please don't let there be any more…

I heard a shout of 'Stop her, Holmes!' Gotta catch me first, I thought grimly. I slowed down a little so I wouldn't break a leg on the stairs, but sped up again when I heard footsteps pounding behind me. I didn't dare look, so I focussed on the front door, so close, just a few more steps… then my knees suddenly buckled and I pitched forward into darkness, the words 'Bravo, Mrs. Hudson!' ringing in my ears…

_I know, Mary-Sues can be cheesy and annoying, but I just couldn't resist, and I've __**tried**__ not make her sickeningly perfect! Any flames will be used to fuel my flamethrower, which is pointed at your petrol tank… _


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up in a strange place for the second time that day. At least this time it was in a bed, too bad it wasn't mine. My head was aching, and so was my arm. I couldn't remember actually getting hurt in the fight, not that I would have noticed at the time. I pulled up the sleeve of the nightshirt I was wearing (where had that come from?), and found a bandage on my arm. Okay, totally confused now, need to get me some answers. I tried to get out of bed, but the room started wobbling when I sat up, and I fell back onto the pillows. Just then the door opened and I closed my eyes, pretending I was still out cold.

I heard someone walk into the room with a heavy limping step: oh fuck, it had to be the guy I'd kicked in the kneecap. I hoped like crazy he didn't hold a grudge. I heard him sit down in the chair next to the bed with a sigh, then he spoke. "There's no need to pretend, madam; we mean you no harm, I assure you."

Rats, he knew I was awake. Oh well, if he was going to hurt me, he would have done it already… wouldn't he? I opened my eyes and grinned at him sheepishly. "Hey, can't blame a girl for trying. Um, sorry about kicking you like that, I guess I got a bit carried away."

He raised an eyebrow at me, rubbing his knee. "Madam, if that was a _little_ carried away, I would hate to seriously offend you! But I digress. How are you feeling? Our good landlady certainly packs a whallop with a rolling-pin."

"Mmph, remind me to thank her for that friendly tap! What happened to my arm?"

"According to my friend, you'd dropped the razor when Mrs. Hudson knocked you unconscious. You fell on top of it."

I winced. "And Mom always told me not to run with scissors."

"Fortunately, it was a shallow cut, you didn't need stitches. All the same, you should use it sparingly for a few days. No more tavern brawls," the guy said sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye.

I stared at him. "_You_ fixed me up? I nearly took your nose off with that razor…"

He held his hand up to cut me off. "Madam, I _am_ a doctor; it is my business to help those who need it. You were afraid and confused, and understandably thought I was an enemy. Were I in your position, I would have done the same, although probably not with such ingenuity. I think my friend was rather impressed."

"So who's your friend: Macgyver?" I asked with a grin. He looked at me blankly. "Never mind, Doc; is he around? I should probably say sorry to him, too."

"Not necessary, madam, although an explanation would be greatly appreciated." The tall, thin guy I had sent flying was leaning on the doorframe, arms folded. "For once, even my considerable deductive powers have failed to shed any light on the conundrum you have presented me."

"Modest, isn't he?" I murmured to the Doc, who hid a smile. Beanpole frowned, this was obviously the guy who'd heard me spying in the first place.

"_If_ you would be so kind, madam? The doctor and I have been more than generous in sheltering you and not turning you over to the police, but my patience is wearing thin. I confess I do not greatly appreciate being attacked in my own home by anyone, least of all a half-clothed seamstress."

I sat straight up in bed, headache forgotten, and stared at him. "No, pal, _you_ start talking! If I'm such a bloody big mystery, how the hell did you know that?"

Beanpole matched me stare for stare. "The same way I also know that you are happily married to an officer of the law, with no children. You are a writer, mostly likely romantic fiction, and you used to be a dancer. You have a liking for sweets, perhaps a little too much; you are also careless and easily distracted. I _observe_, dear lady. That is how I make my living. Shall I continue?"

The Doc interrupted before I could tell Beanpole exactly where he could stick his 'observations'. "All right, Holmes, you've made your point. Stop showing off and give the poor lady a chance to tell us what happened."

Now it was the Doc's turn to get stared at, the name 'Holmes' ringing in my ears like a gong. "Holmes? _Sherlock_ Holmes? Oh, you've gotta be kidding me! And Doctor Watson, I presume?" I couldn't help it, I started to laugh. Problem was, I couldn't stop! I fell back on the pillows again, giggling uncontrollably.

I heard Holmes murmur something about the asylum in favour of the Yard, but the Doc told him to shut up. "I need smelling salts, Holmes – she's in shock."

The next minute, I was breathing in something that smelled like month-old socks, making me gag. To be fair, it stopped my giggles right off, if just so I could stop breathing it in. "Ohh, gods, that's foul! Urgh… thanks, Doc, I think…" I gasped, pushing the bottle away and sitting back up to glare at Holmes for the asylum crack. "So… Mr. 'Sheer-luck' Holmes…" I grinned wickedly at his indignant spluttering, "You really think I should be packed off to the loony bin? Please, be my guest, call 'em up! 'Course, then you'll never know who I am or why I was in your bathroom…"

Holmes ground his teeth and glared, but he wasn't a patch on Craig. Rows get interesting when your husband's eyes change colour when he's pissed off. The Doc was just as unimpressed, and all but pushed Holmes out of the room. "She needs to rest, Holmes, for heaven's sake! Whatever her story is, it can wait." He ignored Holmes' grumbling and shut the door in his face, then leaned back against the wall with his shoulders shaking.

"What's up, Doc?" I couldn't resist asking. Come on, you _know_ you would have said it…

The Doc wiped his eyes and sat back in the bedside chair. "Honestly, the look on Holmes' face when you called him 'Sheer-luck'!" he murmured, faintly. "I never thought I'd see him lose his composure like that in front of a woman; forgive me, madam."

"That reminds me, Doc, you need to cut it out with the 'madam' stuff. My name's Melanie Young, but please, just call me Mel." I held out my hand.

He blinked in surprise, but shook my hand, smiling. "Very well, if you insist, Mel."

"I do," I grinned back. I pointed to the door and mouthed, _He's listening? _The Doc looked startled, but then nodded, looking resigned. 'So, Doc, you want I should whisper, or speak up so your nosy friend won't have to strain his ears?' I said in a loud voice, smirking when I heard the muffled curse. "Come on back, Mr Holmes. Sorry, Doc; this isn't gonna be fun, and I'd rather get it over with."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time I was done explaining the events that led to my knocking out, Holmes and the Doc were looking at me like I'd grown a third eye, not that I could blame them. Hell, if someone had tried to feed me a story like that yesterday (tomorrow?), I'd have laughed my head off. I still wasn't even sure _I_ believed it was all real – I mean, come on! Swallowed by a bathtub and spat out into storybook Victorian London? Sure, I'm a fantasy nut, but even I've got limits…

I'll never understand why Holmes didn't just call in the guys from the loony bin right then. Instead, he sent the Doc to get some spare clothes from Mrs. Hudson, then nailed me with a laser beam stare. "So, madam, now that the Doctor is out of the room, suppose you fill in the blanks? Not that I profess to believe you at this point, but I am well aware that there is more to your story than you saw fit to inform Watson."

He was right, I had left out quite a bit. Bad enough that I'd had to explain I was from the future, but how do you tell the world's greatest detective that he's just a made-up character? Then again, considering the good old Trousers of Time theory, maybe this was an alternate timeline or something. I needed more info about where and when I was at.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," I quipped. "Honestly, Mr. Holmes, until I get my bearings, there's a lot of stuff I can't tell you, and even then… I've gotta be really careful here, or I could end up wiping out my own future or something."

Holmes raised a sceptical eyebrow, but sat down by the bed and steepled his fingers. "What information do you require?"

"Well, for a starters… I guess I need to know if Moriarty's still alive," I said, awkwardly.

Holmes' face became a mask, and he sat very still. "What do you know of Professor Moriarty, madam?"

I shook my head, a nasty feeling stirring in my gut. "Only what I've heard, Mr. Holmes, and believe me, that's enough. If that evil bastard ever found out about me…" I shuddered, hoping he'd get the picture.

"I am sorry to distress you, madam, but Moriarty is very much alive at present. But you say you have heard about his demise in the future? I have to wonder what your source was, or is that also forbidden knowledge?"

"Gee, that didn't sound sarcastic at all. Shit…" I took a deep breath, hoping like hell I was making the right choice. "If I tell you, Mr. Holmes, you gotta swear not to tell the Doc. I'm sure he can keep a secret, but this is a 'might destroy the future' kind of info."

"Very well, you have my word. Pray continue."

"The credit goes to the Doc, Mr Holmes. In my time, there's a whole lot more stories about your adventures, and Moriarty… well, let's just say he's one of the villains in those stories. I really wish I could tell you what happens, but…"

"But you fear the effect of prior knowledge on future events."

"Got it in one," I nodded. "I just hope I haven't already screwed things up just by being here! The sooner I get back home, the better. Craig could be worried sick by now. You got any ideas?"

"Sadly, time travel is not my area of expertise and, despite Watson's addiction to such authors as Wells and Verne, I doubt he could suggest a working solution either. However," he got up as the Doc and Mrs. Hudson walked back in with an armful of clothes each, "We shall see what can be done. In the meantime, you may remain here, incognito."

"So... does this mean you believe me?"

Holmes gave me a look I couldn't read. "Let us rather say at present, madam, that I do not _dis_believe you."

The Doc stared at Holmes' turnaround, but kept his mouth shut for the moment. Mrs. Hudson shooed both guys out of the room, then helped me figure out the Victorian clothes. Unfortunately, she didn't have any shoes my size – it looked like I was going barefoot a while longer. I also drew the line at the corset, earning a disapproving sniff. I guessed I was still in her bad books about the Bathroom Incident, although the Doc had obviously told her some kind of story about why I was there. I just wished he'd told me what it was! When I finished dressing, I went and gave the landlady a grateful hug. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, you rock! I'm really sorry about all the mess…"

That took some of the wind out of her sails, and she patted me on the back kindly. "That's alright, dear. I hope there are no hard feelings about our first meeting?"

"No way," I grinned. "You got one hell of an arm, ma'am. Mr Holmes should start taking _you_ on cases!"

"Oh, get along with you!" she scolded, blushing like a teenager. "Me, a respectable widow, gallivanting about with those two madcaps? The very idea…"

Sure, lady, I can see the idea fills you with horror… want a little cheese with that ham?


	4. Chapter 4

I went out and showed off my new threads to the guys. Of course, Holmes was quick to spot the lack of corset, which earned him a verbal slap upside the head from the Doc. "Hey, give him a break, Doc, he's just doing his job," I defended, curling up on the sitting room couch. "Speaking of which, Mr Holmes: how did you know all that stuff about me? Yeah, I know you _observed_; but what gave it away, apart from the wedding ring, I mean?"

Holmes took a deep breath. "Your confidence around males suggests that you are unused to any kind of domestic violence, besides having no physical marks, save the occasional minor scrape and several bone spurs; that would rather indicate carelessness and a tendency to daydream. Blonde is not your natural hair colour, your eyebrows are much too dark; but you are not the kind of female who flaunts her physical attributes, therefore your husband chose the colour of the dye. A husband who cares more about his wife's appearance than she does cannot help but make her happy.

You fought with commendable skill and tactics when cornered, and you knew not to look back when being pursued. Your husband clearly encounters criminals on a regular basis. You do not have the physical attributes notable to women who have borne children, I am sure I need not elaborate... also, you display no maternal mannerisms.

Your fingertips are flattened, although not stained with ink, therefore you do all of your writing on a typewriter. Either a journalist or a novelist, but your speech is coarse and undignified, most unsuitable for a mouthpiece of the public. Your movements are graceful, but your knees are stiffer than they should be for a woman of thirty, you no longer have the physical fitness required for dancing, doubtless because of that very activity. The sweets were, I confess, a cheap victory – what female does not have a weakness for such things?"

I leaned back on the couch and laughed. "And the seamstress part? Hang on, lemme guess, you saw the pin and needle marks on my fingers."

"Partially correct, madam. I also noted the makeshift clothing you had constructed with nothing more than several towels and a razor. Then too, you had fibres lodged in your teeth from where you had bitten off several loose threads, and you rolled the severed threads into a ball, both are tricks used predominantly by tailors and the like. You have also been unconsciously studying the clothing worn by those around you since you awoke."

"Okay… permission to be gobsmacked, sir," I grinned, shaking my head in wonder. "I'm impressed, Mr Holmes, you got nearly everything right!"

"What, nearly?" the Doc piped up. "You're losing your touch, old chap!"

Holmes glowered at him, then glanced at me, mind clearly racing. I held out a few seconds longer before taking pity on him. "You were right about Craig having a job chasing crooks, but he's a security guard, not a cop. You weren't to know; it's pretty much the same job description, anyway, minus the gun."

Holmes nodded, grudgingly.

"So, what now? Check the bathroom for clues?"

"I had already examined the bathroom minutely before you awoke, madam, and found no evidence as to how you might have arrived there."

"But you hadn't heard my story yet, right? Maybe there's something you missed 'cause you weren't looking for anything paranormal or whatever. Hey, no offence! You said yourself you're no expert on that kind of thing."

"She does have a point, Holmes," the Doc agreed. "Perhaps…"

But we never did learn if there was anything weird left in the bathroom, cause that's when the doorbell rang.


	5. Chapter 5

The guys looked at each other in surprise, the Doc checking out of the window to see who was calling. "Ah... Holmes, were you expecting Lestrade this morning?"

"No, _we_ weren't," Holmes said grimly, turning back to me. "My dear Mrs. Young, would you be so good as to remove yourself from the sitting room temporarily? My bedchamber is still at your disposal..."

I snorted, giving him my best 'not in a million years' look. "Are you kidding me?! I'm not missing this!"

Holmes shot me another death glare, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it – and Lestrade was already clomping up the stairs, anyway. It suddenly dawned on me that I really shouldn't be lolling about like this, and quickly sat up straight like the Victorian women I'd seen in the movies. I still didn't have any shoes on, but the long skirt hid my bare feet okay, as long as I didn't stand up.

The Doc shook his head, then crossed the room to get the door when Lestrade knocked. "Good morning, Inspector, I hope you are well?"

"Well enough, thank you, Doctor," Lestrade nodded, stepping inside. I'm not really sure what I was expecting him to look like, even with the descriptions of him in the stories... but it was still a shock to find out that the Doc had taken some major poetic license. Ferret-like, my foot! This guy was way more like Rupert Graves than Eddie Marsan!

Crap, he'd caught me staring. "Good morning, ma'am. My apologies, Mr. Holmes – if I'd known you had a client..."

Holmes waved a casual hand. "A trifling matter, Lestrade – pray take a seat. Mrs. Young, allow me to introduce Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard."

I gritted my teeth and did my best to smile sweetly at Lestrade as he sat down. "It's an honour to make your acquaintance, Inspector. Mr. Holmes was just telling me how helpful Scotland Yard has been to him on numerous occasions." Whoa, did I just say all that? I guess watching those old movies _was_ good for something.

Lestrade gave me a polite little smile back, eyes twinkling. "Most kind of him, I'm sure." He obviously didn't believe a word of it.

"Well, Lestrade?" Holmes raised a hand as the Inspector hesitated a moment longer, eyes flickering back in my direction. "I assure you, Inspector, my client is the very soul of discretion. What can we do for you?"

Lestrade nodded slowly, then took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. "Tell me, Mr. Holmes, have you ever heard of an American by the name of George Fuller?"

Holmes frowned. "Fuller... no, not to my knowledge."

"What about you, Doctor?"

"Sorry, Inspector, I can't recall ever hearing the name."

"Or you, perhaps, Mrs. Young?" Okay... Holmes might've just vouched for me, but the Inspector was definitely starting to look at me sideways again.

"That name means nothing to me, Inspector. Should it?" Like _I'd_ know anyone from this time period personally!

Lestrade's frown got deeper. "That remains to be seen, ma'am. From the looks of things, Mr. Fuller was also on his way to consult Mr. Holmes when he was murdered."


	6. Chapter 6

"Murdered?" Holmes pricked up his ears, eyes gleaming with deepening interest. "Do go on, Lestrade. Why would you think this George Fuller wished to see me?"

"When Fuller's body was found, it looked like a simple robbery at first – his wallet was on the ground beside him, and any money he might have had was long gone. But when we examined the surrounding ground more closely, we discovered this, trodden into the mud." Lestrade turned a page in his notebook and took out what looked like a very dirty scrap of paper.

Holmes left his chair like a cat who's spied a mouse, plucking the paper out of Lestrade's fingers and holding it up to the light. "A newspaper cutting..."

"With your name and address handwritten on the other side, Mr. Holmes. It seems fairly obvious that the cutting must have fallen out of Fuller's wallet when it was rifled."

Holmes's expression showed plainly what he thought of Lestrade's assumptions. "I gather it was also fairly obvious how the unfortunate Mr. Fuller met his end?"

Lestrade ignored the sarcastic tone. "He'd been knifed in the back – there was a nasty stab wound between his fourth and fifth ribs."

"Poor devil," the Doc murmured, giving my shudder a sympathetic look. It was nice to know there was someone else around here more concerned about the victim than the crime!

"Where was this?"

"On the east bank of the Grosvenor Canal, just under Ebury Bridge."

"Why a newspaper cutting, though?" I couldn't resist asking. "Does it give any clue why this guy wanted to see Mr. Holmes?"

"_Assuming_ the cutting did belong to Fuller," Holmes tossed over his shoulder, hurrying into the bedroom. He came back in a moment with the bowl from his washstand, still half full of water, and a shaving brush. Setting it on the Doc's writing desk, he started carefully washing the dirt off the paper – Mrs. Hudson would be thrilled.

"You think the killer might have left it behind as a message?"

"Possibly..."

A bold headline soon came into view, although the rest of the article was too blurry to read:

**Further Giardia Outbreaks In South London**

**Southwark and Vauxhall Waterworks Blamed, Facing Inquiry**

The Doc was quick to recognise the heading. "Holmes, that story was in the Daily Telegraph two weeks ago!"

"Indeed, which explains how this news might have reached Fuller's ears across the Atlantic."

Oh right, the Daily Telegraph got wired overseas now. As for me, I barely kept from giving myself away in front of Lestrade. I'd never heard of any disease called giardia, but I was damn sure that catching it wouldn't be any fun. Just my luck to visit London in the time of the plague!

The Doc saw my expression and took pity on me. "No need to worry, madam. Our good landlady has been faithfully boiling every drop of water these last few weeks." So you could only get giardia from drinking unboiled water? Good to know. "And we're north of the Thames here, in any case – supplied by a different company."

"Okay, but... doesn't all that water come from the Thames, anyway?" I'd heard _plenty_ of horror stories about that river.

"Most of it, yes," Holmes answered thoughtfully, straightening up and putting the dripping scrap on some blotting paper to dry. "Which begs the question: why did this article about one particular water company bring Mr. George Fuller from the States in such haste to consult me? Lestrade..."

The Inspector sighed. "You want access to the mortuary, I gather?"

"If you've nothing better to do this morning," Holmes drawled bitingly. "Although I should imagine preventing any more outbreaks would be rather high on the Yard's list of priorities."

"And since we're all agreed on that point," the Doc said hastily before the reddening Lestrade could respond, "supposing the two of you make your way there whilst I escort Mrs. Young back to her hotel?" Shit, I forgot. Even if I had any shoes to my name right now, I doubted the Inspector would let a woman into the mortuary – assuming I was actually interested in seeing a dead body! And honestly, it didn't take me long to decide I really wasn't.

"Right, then," Lestrade nodded, giving me an apologetic smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Young – I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be able to swiftly clear up whatever little problem you've brought him soon enough."

I tried not to bristle at the patronising tone, giving him an innocent smile in return. "Oh, I have every confidence in Mr. Holmes's abilities, Inspector. I'm sure this won't be the first time he's had to track down missing shoes. Good day, gentlemen." Without another word, I stood up and walked out the sitting room door, bare feet and ankles clearly visible. All three men had risen automatically when I did, but it still took half a flight of stairs for the Doc to catch up, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter for the second time that morning.


	7. Chapter 7

I grinned at the Doc as we left the house. "Lestrade's face, huh?"

My escort actually snickered, hailing us a hansom with a piercing whistle. "Of all the strange things he's seen while working with Holmes, I think that one topped the list."

I'm embarassed to admit I just ignored the Doc's offered hand that first time and climbed straight up into the cab on my own, even bouncing a little on the leather cushions. This was so much better than taking the tram back home! "What, even after...?" Shit, me and my big mouth! I slammed it shut, but way too late – the Doc was already giving me his own laser beam stare.

"Even after...?" The Doc closed the doors and the cab lurched off, jolting and swaying over the cobbles.

"Uhh..." Damn, damn, _damn_... "...after your..." ...hunt for a murderer using a legendary hellhound as cover... "holiday in Dartmoor?" I mumbled lamely. If 'Hound of the Baskervilles' hadn't happened yet, the place name on its own shouldn't give away anything important – right?

Wow, the Doc was just as good at giving people The Eyebrow as Holmes. "Well, I shan't inquire how many of my as-yet-unwritten accounts will be set in that region." He'd obviously figured out what Holmes and I had been talking about while he was downstairs.

I stared down at my dusty toes, face red. "Sorry, Doc..." ...no... "Doctor. Mr. Holmes would've told you, but I asked him not to." I looked back up at my guide with a sheepish smile. "Hey, nothing personal, okay? I just wanted to make sure I wasn't gonna screw things up on a galactic scale."

He nodded, smiling back at me kindly. "You are being very brave, Mrs... Mel. Truthfully, now, how are you holding up?"

I shrugged, grimacing. "I'm okay, I guess..." Then again, how much time had I really had so far to let it all sink in? I'd be willing to bet it wouldn't be pretty when it finally did. "I just wish I had a clue about how the hell I got here! Whoever heard of anyone time-travelling in a bathtub, for God's sake?!"

"Well, there has to be a first time for everything, I suppose." The Doc frowned. "It's odd, though: Mrs. Hudson would have been the last one in the bathroom this morning before you arrived, and she wouldn't ordinarily leave the bath half full..."

As opposed to everything else odd about this? "So what are you saying? That I might not have ended up in your bathroom if the tub had been empty?" I _really_ didn't want to think about where else I could've ended up...

"It's hardly the maddest idea of the morning," the Doc answered dryly. "But as Holmes is fond of saying, it would be useless to postulate theories until we have more data."

My eyes narrowed. "Yeah, and that reminds me, Doc: what's the deal with Lestrade?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, come on, Doc – the Inspector doesn't look anything like how you described him in 'A Study in Scarlet'. Artistic license is one thing, but he could probably have sued you for libel if he'd wanted to!"

Again with The Eyebrow. "Well, happily for all concerned, after a brief conversation about the virtues of giving due credit, he decided to practice discretion."

"Uh-huh." Confucius say, 'Don't piss off a writer, they might put you in a story and kill you.' "So, which shoe store are we going to?"

* * *

><p>The shop was a little place in Bloomsbury: Samuel Thurston and Son. I did run into some raised eyebrows walking in there with bare feet, but luckily Mrs. Hudson had been a regular of theirs for years – telling them she'd recommended them personally was enough to get me the royal treatment.<p>

"Just don't show me anything with high heels," I warned, turning back to the Doc. "The last time I wore those was at my cousin's wedding, eight years ago. Big mistake."

The Doctor winced in sympathy. "Dare I ask what happened?"

I shook my head, trying not to blush at the memory. "Let's just say I balance a lot better when I'm not stuck on tiptoes." Ironic in a dancer, I know, but that's life for you.

In the end, I chose a pair of black leather button boots; the heels were okay, only an inch high, and Mr. Thurston promised me the toes would stretch in no time.

"Soak them in warm water when we get home, then wear them dry," the Doc advised as we left. "Leather stretches better when wet."

"Wow, okay; I didn't know that." Well, actually I did – leatherwork was one of my talents as a seamstress – but at the very least I owed him this. I waited for him to hail the next cab before saying awkwardly, "Um, thanks for doing that, Doc – you really didn't have to..." I'd definitely have to find a way to pay him back properly; I'd never met _any_ guy before who'd even think of paying for a stranger's shoes!

The Doc shook his head firmly. "Don't mention it, my dear. London holds quite enough hazards for the unwary as it is; I shouldn't have liked to see you fall foul of a stray nail or a horse's hoof while barefoot!"

My turn to wince. "No kidding!" God only knew how long ago my last tetanus shot was – and it probably hadn't been invented here yet, either. "So where to now?"

"Scotland Yard." How did I know I was going to get an apologetic smile? "I hope you've no objection to waiting at the front desk."

Yeah, right, screw that. The Doc might be a gentleman, but it looked like even he unthinkingly expected most women to play the Sit Down, Shut Up game. Well, sorry, Doc, but this girl don't play! "Actually, I was thinking... what if we went around and asked a few questions of our own? It's not like any bad guys would suspect me of helping on the case." And it wasn't like this case had a snowball's chance in Hell of getting published, even if we did solve it.

The Doc frowned as our cab started off. "You have somewhere in mind, I gather?"

"Course I have – Fuller sailed to London, didn't he? His name's gotta be on the recent passenger lists at the shipping office, or whatever it is these days." And even if it wasn't there, that should tell us something, too.

My escort rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then leaned forward and called up to the driver, "The office of the Daily Telegraph."

"O-kay... You wanna double check that newspaper article first?"

The Doc sat back again, looking more than a little smug. "Cabin passengers are also listed in the Shipping Intelligence columns of every major London newspaper – we can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak."

"Nice," I grinned, settling back to enjoy the ride, trying to ignore my squashed toes for the moment. The Doc would have to excuse the bad pun, but the game was now well and truly afoot.


	8. Chapter 8

Our trip to Fleet Street seemed to take far longer than it should have. This probably wasn't helped by me attempting to banish images of Sweeny Todd from my brain by asking the Doc for more info about this giardia – and by the time he was done, I'd lost my appetite for lunch anyway. Long story short: it's a parasite that lives in the gut, passed along (surprise, surprise) by infected water and food. I'm not even going to talk about what it does to your insides – remember the worst case of food poisoning you ever had and you'd be on the right track.

I'd expected the Telegraph HQ to be a lot busier when we got there, and of course was stupid enough to say that out loud. The guy at the front desk explained with still more condescension that a newspaper was like a loaf of bread: the end result had to be fresh for the morning, so got 'baked' in the small hours. That did make sense, printing early would probably mean missing out on any breaking news overnight. We were escorted to the archive room by an underling and sternly warned not to leave a mess – not that anyone would notice! Compared with these ceiling-high stacks, the Baker Street sitting room would've been left sobbing in last place. Thank God all those boxes were labelled, but it still took ages to file everything back in the right order afterwards.

The article on the giardia outbreaks wasn't hard to find, which the Doc asked me to write out in his notebook while he went to wire Holmes about what we were up to. Yeah, okay... maybe I shouldn't have looked further back in the pages... but come on! Could _you_ have resisted a temptation like that?

Wow, this guy was a doctor, all right – my handwriting was way neater than his chicken scratch. I chose an earlier page at random, then grinned as a familiar name caught my eye amid the scrawl. _The __Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of the queerest men..._ Cool, looked like the Greek Interpreter case had already happened. Holmes wouldn't have been happy if I'd told the Doc about his brother before him – talk about spoilers! The notebook was a bit thin, that case must have been fairly recent. I couldn't help wondering what their latest case had been... Hey, wait a second, what if it was one of the unpublished adventures? Just a quick peek at the end couldn't hurt... Heart pounding, I flipped forward a little more... and then the words 'Agra treasure' jumped off the page at me:

_'__You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure.'_

Whoa, no way, 'The Sign of Four'? But... hang on, neither of the guys had said anything about Mary since I got here! Surely the Doc would've at least offered to introduce me? I skimmed a few more pages, finding it easier to read now that I knew what to look for:

_...Toby... Baker Street Irregulars...__both boats flying... box was empty._

Oh my God, the famous proposal scene. I loved this part, must have read it a hundred times, and now I'd get to read the original...

_Miss Morstan unaffected by loss of treasure, Mrs. Forrester greatly disappointed on her behalf. Expressed my regrets, returned to Baker Street with empty casket._

My mouth fell open, staring slack-jawed at the page. What... what the hell? What about the engagement? The Doc _had_ proposed to Mary... hadn't he? Trying to swallow a growing sense of dread, I hurriedly flipped through to the end – maybe it really happened _after_ Jonathan Small told his story... Ah, there it was:

_Small taken into custody by Jones, casket retained as evidence. Rest of evening spent smoking, Holmes returning to cocaine bottle in resulting lethargy. _

Oh shit. That was it, the last notes. Not a single bloody word anywhere about any engagement, or marriage, or... or courtship, or anything! I shivered, rubbing my arms, suddenly as cold as I'd been in that bath water. This _couldn't_ be how the story really ended... could it? "What the hell's going on?" I whispered.

"You tell me."


	9. Chapter 9

I jumped guiltily as the Doc's stern voice came from the doorway, looking up to see him holding two steaming mugs, and wearing a face to match the voice. He came in and set the mugs carefully on the desk, then picked up the notebook and closed it with a snap that told me loud and clear just how much trouble I was in right now.

Cheeks red, I picked up the nearest mug and took a hasty sip. "Thanks..." I mumbled, now feeling even more like a heel.

"Well, one must keep hydrated in this weather. At least with tea, one knows the water is safe to drink." Ouch, two 'one's, he must be seriously pissed. The Doc tucked his notebook back into the inside of his jacket, then sat down opposite me. "I've no idea what common civilities are still practiced in your time, madam, but if you wish to remain at Baker Street, then in future you will refrain from meddling in our affairs uninvited. How many did you read?"

"Just two – don't worry, they're both gonna be published. 'Greek Interpreter' and 'The Sign of Four'."

"...I see." Was it my imagination, or was the Doc turning just a little bit pink?

I took a deep breath. "Look, Doc... I know it's none of my business..." This probably wasn't a good time to tell him that his romantic life was going to be everyone's business! "But what did happen to Mary – I mean, Miss Morstan?"

Yup, he was definitely blushing. "The young lady is well enough, I believe."

'Believe'? "So... you haven't seen her since the case closed, then?"

The Doc gave me an odd look. "Why would I have?"

Ohhh, if that wasn't a defensive question, I'd eat my new boots. "Well... some of us readers can't help wondering if you... left anything out of that story? You and Miss Morstan did seem to be kinda hitting it off..."

The Doc frowned. "Hitting it... ah, I see." The frown turned into a bright smile – maybe a little too bright. "Well, since you ask, there was one detail that I omitted to mention. Miss Morstan's engagement to Mr. Sholto really didn't seem all that relevant at the time." My mouth fell open, staring at him in horror. "Holmes is always telling me not to romanticise his cases, and for once, he was quite right..."

"Are you crazy?!" I exploded.

"I... beg your pardon?" The Doc looked about as shocked as I felt.

"How... how could you let Mary marry _Sholto_, for God's sake?" I spluttered. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?!"

The Doc frowned warningly, colour changing rapidly from pink to red. "My dear Mrs. Young, I fail to see how I could have _permitted_ Miss Morstan to marry anyone, much less prevented her from doing so – I am hardly her legal guardian..."

"Aw, don't bullshit me, Doc!" I shot back. "You had the perfect opportunity to pop the question when you found out the treasure was gone, and you blew it! Why?" But the stony silence from the other side of the desk was all the answer I needed. "Cause you still didn't think you were good enough for her," I finished wearily, letting my forehead thud onto the wood with a groan. "Gods save me from pigheaded soldiers...!"

"You're right." My head snapped back up, but the look on the Doc's face didn't fill me with optimism, or the soft but steely tone of his voice. "My personal affairs _are_ none of your business, madam, and I will thank you to never allude to the matter again. Now," he continued briskly, turning to the nearest stack of boxes, "if we might continue on to the shipping columns..."

"But it's still not too late, right?" I blurted out, trying not to cringe as his frown deepened. "Look, I'm really sorry if you think I'm being nosey, Doc, but this _is_ important, trust me! This isn't how the story is supposed to go, you and Mary do get married in the end! Jesus, if you can't take my word for it, then why can't you at least take your own?"

The Doc's grip tightened on the lid of the box he'd just opened, the thick cardboard crumpling like it was tissue paper. He stood silent for a long moment with his back to me, then spoke stiffly, still facing the wall. "If you are as familiar with my future works as you claim, madam," _Yeah, saw what you did there, asshole..._ "you must surely understand that a good number of Holmes's cases do not end as satisfactorily as the general public prefer to believe."

"Yeah, okay, I get it, you gotta use artistic license sometimes!" I took a deep breath. "But this story doesn't _have_ to end that way, Doc – if Mary hasn't actually married Thaddeus yet, there's still time to fix things!" And the penny finally dropped. "Oh my God... maybe... maybe _that's_ why I'm here, to make sure your story ends the way it's supposed to...!"

I trailed off as the Doc's shoulders started to shake. It took me a few horrified seconds to work out that he wasn't crying, but _laughing_ – and I'd had plenty of time to get majorly pissed off about that by the time he turned back around, still chuckling. "Finally... a theory even more insane than time travelling through plumbing!" I just sat there glaring, arms folded, until the smile slid off his face. "Mel," he sighed, "believe me, I do appreciate that you mean well – but Mar... Miss Morstan and I will be perfectly all right. Now, please, do everyone concerned a huge favour and desist from all of this 'happy endings' nonsense." Jeez, could this jerkass sound any _more_ patronising? "I am, as you say, a soldier – as is Holmes, essentially – and it should be obvious to any intelligent reader that neither of our vocations are the stuff of fairy tales." Okay, he could. "Life is never as neat as it is in stories, and it rarely ends that well..."

Oh, for _fuck's_ sake... "I know!" Owww... Note to self: never pound your fist on a flat surface without checking for mugs. Thank God it was empty. I looked back up from rubbing my bruised hand to see the Doc nailing me with the patent Sherlock Holmes Laser Stare, his face now white as paper. Oh, shit...

"_What_ do you know?"

Oh God... um... "Well, it's like you said, stories don't always have happy endings..." Did I _really_ have to tell him? And when you got right down to it, what exactly was there _to_ tell? "Look, Doc," I sighed, "you gotta keep in mind that your domestic life doesn't get much mention in the later stories – and you did just say that you have to change a lot of stuff in them anyway..."

Crap, he wasn't buying it. "_Tell me._"

"Well... according to the story – and I'm not telling you which one, so don't even bother –" I added hastily, "Mary, um... dies sometime in the next, uh, five years."

The Doc sat back down heavily, looking sick. "How...?"

"I don't know! Nobody knows, you didn't say! Just that she died – and I'm not even sure about that, to be perfectly honest. Like you said, you use a _lot_ of artistic license. Is it really so crazy to think that you could have just written that Mary died to keep her safe?"

The look on his face told me clearly what he thought of that idea. Holmes, you selfish bastard... "Safe from whom?"

"Well, Moriarty, for a start!" ...oops...

The Doc's mouth was a thin, hard line. "I see..."

"No, you don't!" And that was another chilling thought: without his wife to come home to, what was to stop the Doc from just 'following' Holmes over Reichenbach Falls? "Doc, you and Mary _need_ each other – it doesn't matter how long you've got, or what Hol…. what anyone else might think. What matters is that if you don't get together, you're both gonna regret it for the rest of your lives!"

"As much as I would regret sending Mary to an early grave?" The Doc's eyes were blazing, jaw clenched tight.

"You don't _know_ that'll happen! Hell, you and Mr. Holmes could get run over by a... a carriage tomorrow and that would be it, but you don't let that stop you going anywhere!"

"That is not the point..."

"It's exactly the point!" My eyes narrowed as another thought dawned. "And it's not all up to you, anyway. Doc, at the very least, you owe it to Mary to tell her how you feel about her. You think she would've accepted _Sholto_ if you hadn't chickened out?"

The Doc was looking like someone had punched him. "...I should think it was just possible..."

I stared. "You've gotta be kidding me! C'mon, Doc, you know Mary doesn't give a shit about money!"

"Then why did she accept him?" Ouuuch... If I'd had any doubts before about how the Doc really felt about Mary, the hurt in his voice would have crushed every one of them.

I smiled grimly, shrugging. "No clue. But here's a mad idea: you could go and... oh, I don't know, maybe _ask her?_"

And now he was looking at me like I'd invited him to drink straight out of the Thames. "Ask?"

"Yeah, you know, asking: that thing people do when they wanna know something!" I sighed deeply. "Doc, it's obvious you love her – don't you think she's at least worth risking a little pride over?"

The Doc sagged, suddenly looking a lot older. "If it were only my pride at stake, my dear... then yes." He passed a weary hand over his face. "But how utterly selfish would it be for me to put a young lady's life, health, or happiness at risk, all for the sake of a few years' domesticity?"

"But Sholto..."

"Mel, my description of Mr. Sholto may not have given you a very favourable impression of him – and if that is the case, I am sorry – but he is a good man, kind and honourable. If not for him, Mary would not even have received what little treasure she did." Yeah, okay, I had to give him that. "She will have a far better life at Pondicherry Lodge than I could ever hope to give her."

"Better...?" I could hardly get that one word out. "How the hell's that supposed to be _better_ if she's in love with someone else?"

"If she did not already think Thaddeus the better man when she accepted him, then she will soon enough..." Oh my God, his eyes... and now mine were starting to sting, dammit. "I thank you for your concern, my dear... but this discussion is now at an end."

I'm not sure how either of us got through the next hour – I guess it helped that we had something else to focus on. We must have looked through every issue of the Telegraph for the last six months before finally giving up. No trace of any George Fuller sailing from America to England, and the only 'G. Fuller' going that way turned out to be a three-month-old baby girl.

The Doc tried to joke that not even Holmes could disguise himself that well, but I couldn't even crack a smile. "Well, he might have used a false name, I suppose." The Doc straightened with a grimace, massaging his lower back. "Or travelled in steerage."

"Yeah, too bad the newspapers don't print those passenger lists," I nodded, putting the last couple of boxes back. "So... next stop, the shipping office?"

"I'm afraid not." Huh? "My dear, we have done a full morning's work, and unlike Holmes, ordinary mortals require regular sustenance."

"Is that a writer's way of saying it's lunchtime?"

"If you would care to join me." The Doc gallantly held out his arm.

I took it willingly, grateful for the implied truce. "Steady on, Doc – I'm married, remember?" The words were out of my mouth before I realised. "Uh..." Shit, shit, _shit_... "Actually, Doc, I'm not really all that hungry," I stammered. "Can you take a rain check?"

He nodded silently, face as red as mine. Back out on the street, he only stayed with me long enough to hail a cab and pay the driver after I'd climbed in. "Baker Street." And then he was hurrying away from me, across the road, dodging carts and pedestrians until I'd lost sight of him in the crowd. Not that I could see much, anyway – some dust must have got in my eyes...


	10. Chapter 10

I must have looked a right mess when I got back to 221B: tear-stained face, red eyes, hair all over the place. I was also limping a bit, these bloody shoes were really starting to hurt.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, never said a word about any of it when she answered the door – just ushered me into the kitchen, sat me down, and put the kettle on. She brought me a handkerchief and comb, then took the boots away to the scullery, promising they'd be fit to wear by tomorrow. I could have started crying all over again, it was so nice to have someone mother me after the morning I'd had, but I took a deep breath, blew my nose and started brushing my hair. By the time the landlady came back, I was able to hug her without soaking her shoulder.

After a second cup of tea and a plate of scones, I felt a lot better. I could probably have fallen asleep right there, aching feet and all, but this wasn't the time. There was a mess that needed sorting out, fast, and Mrs. Hudson would probably be my only ally around here – the Doc had made it clear that he wasn't going to lift a finger, and I was pretty sure I couldn't depend on Holmes, either! At least the Fuller case might help to keep both guys out of my hair. As for Mary herself... well, I hadn't even met her yet. She'd better be as understanding as the Doc had written her, or I was going to be in _real_ trouble.

Luckily for me, Mrs. Hudson was only too happy to talk about the Agra case – it was obvious she'd been shipping the couple pretty hard, too. "It's such a shame the dear man left it too late," she tutted.

Hang on... "Too late? You mean... the Doc _was _gonna propose?"

"Once he'd plucked up the courage, certainly." Mrs Hudson shook her head, sighing. "Sadly, Mr. Holmes spotted the notice of Miss Morstan's engagement in that very morning's Times."

"Uh-huh." What were the odds he was _hoping_ to find it? "So when's the wedding?"

"My dear girl, how could I possibly know a thing like that?" The landlady's eyes twinkled. "If you wish to find out how long you have to halt proceedings, may I strongly suggest you inquire of the future Mrs. Sholto?"

I never thought it was possible to blush and shiver at the same time. "I, uh, don't suppose you know where she lives?" Trying at Pondicherry Lodge would have to be a last resort.

"No, but I imagine the address would be among the doctor's case notes."

I groaned. "Great. The Doc caught me reading his notebook this morning, he'll be guarding it like a hawk until I leave again!"

"Yes..." Mrs. Hudson frowned thoughtfully. "Pardon the question, my dear, but exactly how long _do_ you intend to stay?"

"Just until the Doc wins Mary back. After that, I'm gone," I smiled, hoping like hell it was true. Victorian London was an okay place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. It'd be all right if the two time zones were like Earth and Narnia, but what were the odds of that? And... oh God, why hadn't I thought before: what would happen if I _died_ here? Would Craig find my... whoa, no, bad thought, _bad_ thought, think about something else!

The sound of the front door opening was a very welcome distraction, followed by Holmes's imperious summons: "Mrs. Hudson!"

"It's okay, I'll go," I sighed, getting up with a wince as my feet complained. "I gotta talk to him anyway."


	11. Chapter 11

Holmes was slowly pacing the sitting room when I went in, looking deep in thought, hands clasped behind him; but he stopped when he noticed me, openly looking me up and down. "Ah, Mrs. Young, excellent. I see you've finally allowed our good landlady to take you in hand." Okay... bare feet with red patches from where the boots rubbed, freshly combed hair, and... yup, scone crumbs on my skirt.

"There's still some left, if you want... oh, that's right, you don't eat during cases, do you?"

Holmes nodded, returning to his pacing. "Watson will be glad of them when he returns, no doubt." He looked back at me over his shoulder, just in time to catch what felt like my prize blush of the day. "If you would inform..." His voice trailed off, eyes narrowing to slits.

"Right, tell Mrs. Hudson to feed the Doc when he comes in. Got it," I said brightly, edging back towards the door. There was a weird light in Holmes's eyes right now, very different from any of the glares he'd given me before – and honestly, it was starting to scare the shit out of me. "I'm not sure how long he's gonna be, though – he wouldn't come..." Crap... um... "H-he wouldn't let me go with him to wherever he was going next. My best guess would be the shipping office, though," I added hastily. "We were talking about going there, too, check out the steerage lists."

Whoa, the Eyebrow just got upgraded to DEFCON 3. "Indeed? And what else did you discuss, pray, that made him so eager to dispense with your company?"

"Well, we weren't gossiping about you, if that's what you're worried about," I said sarcastically. Like I was going to tell Holmes what I was up to! The selfish jerkass probably hadn't even noticed that his best friend had been moping since Mary got engaged. "I think he was pissed off cause he wasn't told earlier about his future stories." At least that was true, although kind of a lame excuse. "And no, I didn't tell him, he worked it out on his own. You really gotta give him more credit, Mr. Holmes."

"I have every respect for Watson's intelligence, thank you. And if I recall correctly, it was you requesting me not to tell him about his future works." Oh, yeah... "Still, I gather your research at the Telegraph yielded at least some results."

I blinked at the abrupt subject change. "Um, yeah, we found the story about the waterworks. The Doc's got it written in his notebook." And I still had no clue how I was going to sneak a second look at it. "What about you, did you find out anything else at the morgue?"

"Indeed, although I cannot imagine why that should concern you."

Okay, seriously, what was the deal with Victorian men? "Oh, I don't know," I said brightly. "Maybe cause I'm still trying to figure out why the hell I turned up in your bathwater! You gotta admit, your case and my disappearing act have that in common, at least." Even the Great Defective couldn't pass _that_ off as a coincidence without more data.

Holmes's head tilted, starting to look thoughtful again, but just then the front door banged shut. Holmes frowned at the sound of the Doc's slow, uneven footsteps on the stairs, then gave me a pointed look, reminding me that I had an errand to run. I took the hint and headed for his bedroom. Good thing that room had two doors, cause I was pretty sure the Doc wouldn't be too happy to see me right now.

Ten minutes later, I was following Mrs. Hudson back upstairs, helping the landlady carry the guys' afternoon tea – I guess she was ever the optimist over Holmes's eating habits. I opened the sitting room door for her, to see both guys sitting in their armchairs in front of the cold fireplace, probably updating each other on the case. No sign of the Doc's notebook, but his coat was hanging on the back of his chair, tantalisingly close... and I couldn't even touch it at the moment without Holmes catching me in the act, I'd have to bide my time a bit more. Glad that our earlier disagreements gave me an excuse not to make eye contact with either of them, I slunk in and put my tray down on the table beside Mrs. Hudson's, then beat a hasty retreat.

As I reached the landing, I heard Mrs. Hudson tutting behind me, "For heaven's sake, Doctor, just look at the state of your coat – I declare you're quite as bad as Mr. Holmes!" And before the Doc could make more than a half-hearted protest, she'd whisked his coat off the chair and was bustling out the door with it. "Never mind, I'll have it mended in no time, don't you worry."

...no _way_, it had been just that easy?! I'm sure my mouth was hanging open as I followed Mrs. Hudson back down to the kitchen, who was trying not to look smug and failing completely. Confucius say, 'Never underestimate harmless-looking old ladies, they're still alive for a reason.' Now all I had to do was find and decipher Mary's address in the time it would take Mrs. Hudson to sew on a button – damn, I'd have to work fast.


	12. Chapter 12

It turned out there was a lot more work to do on the Doc's coat than just sewing on buttons – he really did need someone to look after him, even Mrs. Hudson could only do so much. She got some sewing out for me as well, in case the Doc came in before she'd finished, and I settled down at the table to read.

It didn't take long to find Mary's address – it looked like she was still living with Mrs. Forrester in Camberwell, 27 Grove Park – and I'm sure you've already figured out that I used the remaining time to check up on the Fuller case notes. Like I thought, the Doc had gone to the shipping office, and he'd widened his search. Interesting... George Fuller hadn't come from America at all, but arrived in London yesterday from Hamburg, Germany, on the steamship 'Redstart', G.S.N.C., whatever that was.

Okay, on to Holmes's updates. There was a detailed description of Fuller's corpse: five feet, ten inches tall; in his early twenties; stout build; blue eyes, obviously short-sighted (his glasses had fallen off and got broken); brown hair, originally slicked down and parted in the middle; clean shaven. Oh, something I'd wondered about early on: how Lestrade knew Fuller was American. Answer: he'd been asking for directions in a States accent just before he was attacked, poor guy.

There was only one other telling item in his pockets, a train ticket stub from Tilford Docks to Liverpool Station. I guess that was pretty close to the Great Eastern Hotel on Liverpool Street, cause that's where Holmes found out he was staying. After Lestrade got a warrant issued, the two searched Fuller's room and found his passport, which had a German stamp in it. I couldn't help grinning, imagining Holmes's reaction when the Doc told him he already knew where Fuller had come from.

Lestrade cabled the American embassy in Berlin, learning that Fuller had graduated from MIT in Massachusetts earlier this year, then transferred to Berlin University, studying bacteriology in the Hygiene Institute. Okay... so that was the connection? Fuller read the article, figured he knew why the water company was making people sick? His murder was definitely looking less like a random homicide. But why come all that way himself, though – why not just cable the right people to get it taken care of?

I flipped back to the written article, maybe there was something in here I hadn't spotted the first time. Nothing seemed to stand out, not that I'd really expected it to. This wasn't my world – hell, this wasn't even my case. I hated to admit it, but I probably was better off staying out of this one, I had enough to deal with anyway. Regretfully, I handed the notebook back to Mrs. Hudson, and started hemming the handkerchief she'd given me, thoughts returning to my own problems: now that I knew where to find Mary, what the bloody hell was I going to say to her?

Mrs. Hudson paused in the middle of slipstitching the Doc's coat lining. "I do hope you've borne in mind, my dear, that Miss Morstan is as unlikely to appreciate your efforts as the doctor."

"Yeah, I know. It's not like I've got any choice, though – she's the only one who can break off the engagement." Not without causing a scandal, anyway... Thank you, Jane Austen.

"And if you learn that she does care for Mr. Sholto?"

"Oh, gods..." I groaned. Seriously, was I the only one capable of positive thinking around here? Come to think of it, though... I only had the published story's word so far that Mary was in love with the Doc... could it be that it _was_ just the Doc's artistic license? I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, and took a deep breath. "Well, if that's how it is... then the Doc's right, there's nothing to be done. I've gotta back off."

Mrs. Hudson gave me a sympathetic smile. "As long as you're prepared for that, my dear." Like hell I was – if all my hard work turned out to be for nothing, I was going to be majorly pissed. And if that wasn't the reason I was here, then how the fuck was I supposed to get home?

I was still chewing over that question when the Doc came in, looking up to give him an apologetic smile. In spite of any differences of opinion, I really did like the guy, he deserved to be happy. Maybe... maybe sticking my foot in my mouth earlier had been me warning myself not to get too close? The Doc was a gentleman, he was right in front of me, and Craig wasn't... and I was only human.

To my relief, he smiled back, nodding at my handiwork. "Well, you two look very industrious, I must say."

"Thank you, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson gave him his coat, the notebook safely tucked back in the inside pocket. "Will you and Mr. Holmes be home for dinner?"

"I expect so, yes – although whether Holmes can be persuaded to partake is another matter entirely," he sighed, turning to leave, then stopping again to speak to me. "General Steam Navigation Company."

"Huh?"

"G.S.N.C., it's the 'Redstart's shipping line."

"Oh." My face felt like it was on fire – how the hell did he know?

Thank God, his eyes were twinkling. "Fresh graphite smudges on your shirt cuff." I guess he was used to being surrounded by people who couldn't mind their own business.

I scrambled out of my chair and went after him, catching up in the hall. "Doc, I..." Shit, what could I say? "Look, I'm... I'm sorry if I..."

He raised a hand, cutting me off. "No need, my dear. This has been a trying day for all of us, and one which has failed to yield you any answers. I assure you, Holmes and I will do everything we can to help you return home, but you must do your best to be patient. Once this investigation is concluded..."

"Yeah, you don't have to worry, I'm off the case," I interrupted. "No more looking in your notes, I promise." Not that I needed to any more, I had Mary's address.

He looked relieved. "Very well. And Mel... pray don't give this morning another thought – you did mean well, after all."

Dammit, why'd he have to say that? I was already starting to feel seriously guilty about sticking my nose in – and if this was an alternate universe, I had no way of knowing if getting involved would do any good or completely screw everything up. It looked like I was in for a sleepless night.


	13. Chapter 13

Sometimes I hate being right; after everyone had gone to bed, I tossed and turned for what felt like an hour, while trying to ignore the sound of Holmes doing the same thing on the sitting room sofa. Finally, I gave up, put on Holmes's spare dressing gown over my nightshirt, and went out to join him. It looked like he'd given up on sleep, too, sitting mostly dressed in his armchair with his knees drawn up, staring into the cold fireplace, one of his many pipes between his teeth.

"Y'know, you really shouldn't smoke," I couldn't resist commenting. "Lung cancer's a bitch, ask my father-in-law." I wasn't too happy about secondhand smoke, either, but since I was a guest, I'd have to put up with it. Just my luck to be staying with _two_ chain smokers.

He didn't bother to turn his head, just gave me a Look out of the corner of his eye. "And even a married woman oughtn't to be attired so immodestly before a bachelor, yet here you are."

"Gimme a break," I sighed, deciding to curl up in the opposite chair instead of taking his spot on the sofa. "You've seen me in nothing but a towel, for God's sake!" As if he'd be any more interested than the Doc – and this was all his stuff, anyway.

"Nevertheless..." he began, then seemed to realise it wasn't worth arguing about, shutting his mouth again.

We sat in semi-awkward silence for a few more minutes, Holmes stubbornly puffing away like a chimney, me blowing the smoke away whenever it got too thick around my head. It all got a bit much in the end, though, and I had to get up. "Um, mind if I borrow some paper?"

He arched a curious eyebrow, but nodded at the Doc's writing desk. "By all means."

I escaped gratefully to the slightly fresher air, managing to find a blank notepad and a spare pencil. If just for my own sanity, I needed to empty my brain out onto paper, see if these thought pieces made any better sense in whole sentences. I should have copied the Doc and kept a record of this 'case' from the start...

... wait... something was niggling at me, something about the Doc's notes... why was I suddenly thinking about jigsaw puzzles? The pieces... there was another piece missing! In the published case, Holmes and the Doc got to hear Jonathan Small's story, but Mary had been left behind in Camberwell. And in this... whatever-it-was, she didn't even get to hear it later – after Small was arrested, the Doc never saw her again. Damn... If I were Mary, I'd be dying to know what my dad had been doing to get himself killed over a treasure chest, even if it was by accident. Maybe... maybe it was time someone finally told her... and I knew just the guy.

_Dear Miss Morstan_...

"May I ask what you're writing?" Shit, I forgot Holmes was in the room, probably wondering why I was suddenly grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Oh... just figuring out the next step for getting back home. I think I'm finally getting somewhere." Thank God I didn't have to lie this time, but I was still careful to keep my eyes fixed on the notepad.

"Ah, excellent." Well, he didn't have to sound quite so happy about that.

"Don't look so disappointed," I smiled sweetly, finally daring to look up. "It's only a theory. I'll have to wait till tomorrow to test it – and no, I don't need any help, thanks for asking." That was a good point, though. "I'm guessing you'll be out working on the Fuller case all day, anyway." I couldn't send anything to Mary without knowing exactly where the Doc was going to be and when.

"Most likely." Holmes knocked out his pipe on the fireplace bricks, then paused for a long moment, giving me yet another unreadable look. Man, I'd hate to try playing poker with this guy. "If I may speak plainly, Mrs. Young... you seem to be under the impression that I consider your presence in this house to be an... inconvenience."

"It's 'Mel'," I sighed. "And yeah, I was kinda getting that impression, can't think why..." I shrugged as he started frowning. "Hey, no big deal, it's not like I wanna be here, either!"

"Nevertheless, madam... Mel..." I tried hard not to let my smile turn into a grin; watching him say my first name like it was some weird new flavour he'd never tried before was kind of funny. "Pray do not think that I... shall be glad of your departure. In truth, I have rarely been so intrigued." Yeah, I guess even 'Hound of the Baskervilles' might seem tame after this. "Sadly, however, my official cases must take precedence."

"...okay..." Did I just get an apology or what? "Uh... right, then, I guess I should... try sleeping again..." It was probably safer to finish this letter in the bedroom, anyway.

"Very well. Er, goodnight, Mel..."

Should I...? Ah, what the hell. "Night, Sherlock."


	14. Chapter 14

I spent most of the next day on edge, and finding out the hard way just how deadly boring detective work can be from the sidelines. Since I had nothing else to do for the moment, I offered to help Mrs. Hudson with her chores once I got my boots back; doing other people's housework is usually more fun than doing your own, but I now make an exception for houses with no electricity.

Holmes went out alone in the morning to send some more telegrams, hoping to find a stronger connection between Fuller and the Southwark and Vauxhall Waterworks. I was dusting the sitting room when he came back a couple of hours later, looking grim; turned out George Fuller had left a wife and baby son behind him in Boston when he went off to Germany. I ducked my head and kept working, pretending I hadn't seen the Doc's face...

Holmes hadn't gotten any obvious leads from Boston or MIT, and he was still waiting to hear back from Berlin University, so the next logical step was to start checking out the waterworks. He went out by himself again after lunch, disguised as a common labourer – I guess so he could hang around the S.V.W. and pick up on any interesting gossip from the workers. That was fine with me, he probably wouldn't be back for hours. Now that it was just me and the Doc here, I could finally finish Mary's letter.

Getting it sent wasn't a problem – Mrs. Hudson had thought ahead and bribed one of the older Irregulars to haunt the back door all day. Of course, it wasn't until the kid had taken off with the note that I _really_ started to wonder if I was doing the right thing... but it was too late to back out now. Please, please, please let this work...

After helping Mrs. Hudson wash the lunch dishes, I took some more sewing upstairs and found the Doc trying to keep cool by the open window – the room was becoming a bit of an oven – scribbling away again in his notebook. I followed his example and took the windowseat, the perfect spot for keeping an eye on the street. "Oh, Doc, I borrowed a pad from your desk last night to make some notes. Mr. Holmes said you wouldn't mind..."

"Of course not," he smiled. "I'm glad you're managing to keep yourself occupied. Was Holmes correct in deducing that you write romantic fiction?"

"Yeah, kind of. And before you ask, no, I don't think I'll be writing about this," I grinned. "Even in my time, people prefer detective stories with slightly more believable plotlines!"

He chuckled. "Anything published yet?"

"Oh God, no, I'm not nearly good enough for that! It's just fanfict... uh, writing for fun, my friends are the only people who read 'em." Explaining about the internet probably wasn't a good idea.

I was so busy concentrating on not saying anything stupid for a change that I completely forgot to keep watching the front door... until the doorbell pealed, making us both jump. I spun round and stared down at the figure standing on the step: a woman, plainly and respectably dressed, though I couldn't see much more than that. Her face and hair were hidden by her bonnet, and I couldn't even tell how tall she was from this angle. It was obvious the Doc recognised her, though – I could hear him swearing fervently under his breath as he peered over my shoulder.

"Oh my God... Doc, is that Mary?" Maybe I didn't sound surprised enough. The Doc turned to look at me very slowly, eyes wide in disbelief and growing fury. Hoo boy, time to do the fastest talking I'd ever done... "Yeah, okay, you got me, I invited her – well, kind of."

"What?!" The Doc's face was rapidly turning from pale to scarlet, fists clenched.

"Well, she thinks the letter she got today was from you... and _no_, it's not what you think, so just _shut up and_ _listen!_" Glaring daggers at me, he pressed his lips together tightly, expression daring me to continue. "Doc, when Jonathan Small told you and Holmes his story, Mary should have been there too, so she could get her questions answered about her dad – but she wasn't there, cause you left her behind!" Emotional blackmail might be a dirty practice, but hey, whatever worked... "Sure, she knows how her dad died, but it's not enough – she needs to know why."

"And that justifies your meddling, does it?" he hissed, glancing wide-eyed over his shoulder at the sound of Mrs. Hudson answering the front door. "Do you have any idea of what you've done?!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Doc! All you gotta do is tell Mary what Mr. Small told you, how hard is that? Look, maybe I can't bring you two together..." crossing my fingers behind my back, "but at least you can help her find some closure – something Sholto can't do. Then she'll get on with her life, and you can get on with yours. Besides..." I arched a mischievous eyebrow, "this could be your last chance to spend some time alone with her! You really gonna pass that up?" I looked him straight in the eye, daring him to say 'yes'. Come on, Doc, you can't be _that_ much of a gentleman... and two sets of footsteps were rapidly approaching up the stairs. "I could hang around and play chaperone, if that helps."

Boy, if looks could kill... but then his head jerked towards Holmes's bedroom. "You're welcome," I grinned, and ran.


	15. Chapter 15

"Miss Morstan to see you, Doctor."

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson." Oh wow, Mary really did have the sweetest voice – no wonder the Doc had fallen for her! I know, I should probably have made tracks, but I just couldn't resist listening in... and don't pretend you wouldn't have, either!

"Er, good afternoon, Miss Morstan. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson – if you would be so good as to bring up some tea?" The sitting room door closed. "Allow me to offer my sincerest congratulations on your engagement, Miss Morstan. I wish you both very happy, I'm sure." _Jeez, Doc, you're a terrible liar..._

"...thank you. Yes, I-I'm sure we shall be." _'Shall be', not 'are' – clue for you, Doc! _"Your letter... You wrote that you had more to tell me about my father?"

"Er, yes... Forgive me, Miss Morstan... I believe I did you a disservice that day." _...holy shit, that was quick!_

"In what way?" _Not proposing when he had the chance..._

"No doubt you would have preferred to hear Mr. Small's account firsthand. I should have at least inquired... such presumption..." _Good grief... Well, at least I got through to him about that._

"Oh... Thank you, Doctor... but truly, it makes no matter."

"You're too kind, Miss Morstan. Well, then... if you would care to take a seat, I shall endeavour to render you one final service."

"I should be most grateful, sir."

Even though I'd already read the story, I soon found myself listening as raptly as Mary – the Doc was a good writer, sure, but hearing him tell the tale aloud was something else again! It did take a long time, though, and I was getting really thirsty; hearing Mrs. Hudson bring up the tea tray for the other two was pure torture. I would have opened the bedroom window, but the sudden through draft could have been a major giveaway that someone was in here.

I was considering leaving them to it for a little bit and sneaking out the other way down to the kitchen, when I heard the front door bang shut. "Watson!"

Oh, shit. Holmes was back early... and he didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on up here! Okay, don't panic, think. The important thing was to keep Mary from finding out about me, I'd been hiding too long to get introduced now. If I just laid low until she went home, and Holmes kept his mouth shut, everything should be okay...

"Watson, I have had the most... Miss Morstan... what a pleasant surprise." I winced – it was obvious from Holmes's coldly polite voice that he would rather have found Moriarty sitting there.

"Mr. Holmes." Ouuuch, Mary had got the message loud and clear. "Do forgive the intrusion, I am here at Dr. Watson's invitation."

"She is indeed," the Doc put in hastily. "Pray be seated again, Miss Morstan. More tea?" Thank God, he sounded far more annoyed by Holmes's attitude than at having to lie through his teeth. "Holmes, why don't you go and make yourself a little more respectable for our guest." Oh yeah, I forgot Holmes was still in disguise.

"...why, certainly." Hoo boy... "Pray excuse me."

And guess who was so busy eavesdropping that she forgot to move away from the door? To be fair, it was kind of my fault that Holmes was in such a bad mood when he flung it open...

When the swirling colours had faded away, I found myself lying on Holmes's bed yet again, except this time it was my face that felt like it had been hit by a train. Mrs. Hudson was bending over me, holding a wet cotton pad stained with blood, probably from my nose.

"Oh God..." I moaned, cringing in pain and embarassment as my memory came mercilessly rushing back. "Where's Mary?"

"Miss Morstan returned home, once she learnt you had suffered no serious injuries. Now, now, lie still. The doctor instructed me to make certain you don't have a concussion." She arched a stern eyebrow. "Although I'm quite sure he believes you would be well served."

I closed my eyes again, letting my aching head sink back into the pillow. "What happened?"

"Well, by all accounts, Mr. Holmes identified you as his married elder sister, come on a surprise visit. You tactfully withdrew when Miss Morstan arrived, but, being a Holmes, were unable to resist listening at the door."

"So... she wasn't angry?" Shit, even frowning hurt.

"Well, not with the good doctor, I shouldn't think. She declined his offer to escort her back to Camberwell, but at least it was gracious."

Thank God... "What about Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, he left again shortly after Miss Morstan, still in that revolting disguise; muttered something about 'escaping Bedlam'." Her eyes twinkled. "Do you know, I think that went rather well, for a first meeting."

I groaned. "Yeah, about as well as ours did..." I seemed to have a genius for making first impressions while unconscious.

Mrs. Hudson didn't comment, just gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and went to fetch some witch hazel.


	16. Chapter 16

By dinnertime, I was able to sit up and eat – Mrs. Hudson considerately brought me a bowl of soup so I wouldn't have to chew. I wasn't all that hungry, though, still kicking myself for being so stupid. Why hadn't I just gone downstairs in the first place and waited for Holmes? Okay, thanks to his quick thinking, the situation between Mary and the Doc wasn't any worse; if anything, it might be a little better. Though the Doc hadn't finished the story of Small's journey, Mary now knew what part her dad had played in it and why. Plus they did get to spend some time alone together, even if Holmes had blundered in and completely killed the mood – probably one more reason the Doc had hesitated to propose.

But then... why did Holmes tell Mary I was family? Why try to resolve the situation at all? I'd be willing to bet Holmes had figured out that inviting Mary over was my idea; it would have been so easy to let that little detail slip and have her storming out in a huff... but he hadn't. Ah, I guess he figured he owed me for knocking me out, not that I could blame him. Note to self: eavesdropping on the wrong side of doors... God, what was I saying?! No more of the spy game for me, I sucked at it! Yeah, okay, the direct approach hadn't worked too well, either, but that might be because I'd been wasting my breath on the wrong person. At the end of the day, the choice was Mary's... so it looked like the only thing left to do was to go and lay the facts out in front of her. If she changed her mind, fantastic; if she didn't... well, I was probably screwed, but at least no one could say I hadn't tried.

* * *

><p>"Absolutely not."<p>

"Mrs. Hudson..."

The landlady took a break from scrubbing the kitchen table, tutting as she looked me over critically. "My dear girl, have you looked in a mirror recently? You're clearly in no fit state to go anywhere just now."

"Well, come with me, then!" And honestly, I wouldn't mind having someone to keep an eye on me; just getting downstairs was a lot harder on the old cranium than I thought.

"A respectable widow and a married woman paying social calls at this time of night, without invitation? Out of the question!"

"Yeah, I know it's 'not done', but I don't have time to mess around!" If I let Mary sleep on her last encounter with the Doc, she could have regretfully written him off as a might-have-been by morning – I had to talk to her while the memory was still fresh. "Hey, at least if I take a cab, you know I'm not gonna get in too much trouble."

She snorted. "Do I, indeed?" Okay, so she had good reason to be sceptical.

I bit my lip, steeling myself. "Mrs. Hudson... I appreciate everything you've done for me, I owe you a lot... but I'm going to see Mary, tonight, period." She raised a challenging eyebrow, but I wasn't backing down this time. "The only thing that's up to you is how long it takes." I could walk that distance if I had to, but I _really_ didn't fancy trying to navigate Victorian London at night, especially in the shape I was in. "_Please_..." Dammit, why'd my voice have to crack right then?

Ms. Hudson gave an explosive sigh, frowning down at the wet tabletop. "The doctor is going to have my head..." she muttered.

"Offer him mine," I grinned in relief.

"Don't think I wouldn't!" she replied sternly, then unlocked a sidetable drawer and took out a small purse. "You have an hour before I inform either gentleman of your whereabouts. Use it wisely."

I pocketed the purse and gave her a bear hug. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson... for everything. I know I've been a pain in the... I mean, I know I've given you a hard time..." Come on, girl, just say it, this could be your last chance... "but you've been like a mom to me when I really needed one. I'll never forget that."

"Hmph, well..." Her arms tightened around me for a moment before letting go. "You'd best be getting along now, my dear, time grows short."

Lady, you've no idea... "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

><p><em>Reviews, please? It'd be nice to know if people are actually enjoying this story or just checking back in because they can't believe anyone could write that badly... ;)<em>


End file.
